Margherita's Notebook (12 page)

Orange crème caramel

She looked at it for a few seconds, then erased crème caramel and replaced it with shooting stars with orange cream and mini strawberry cheesecakes.

That's it! More complicated to make but definitely an eye-catcher.

And so she got down to organizing things.

The first thing she did was debone the pigeon, chop it up, and sauté it in a terra-cotta casserole with a drizzle of oil and some chopped up vegetables. Then she tossed in ground beef and browned everything, stirring, as she tried to figure out what it was that she didn't like about the kitchen. As Margherita checked to see if the meat was done, she ground some black pepper over it.

That's what's wrong . . . It's all so sterile, no one ever really cooks here.

She tasted the ragout and screwed up her nose. She added salt and another pinch of pepper.

Now she was satisfied with her creation. She turned down the heat and went back to the menu. She needed to work on the tortellini. At that moment her cell phone buzzed, informing her of an incoming text message.

With annoyance, Margherita read
FRANCESCO
on the screen again. She sighed and read the message: “Why won't you talk to me? I miss you, I miss you so much,” followed by a sad face. Irritated, she deleted it. Francesco was still playing the victim . . . as if he hadn't been the one to start everything! She'd had enough of his childish ways.

Just then, Carla peered into the kitchen. Margherita brushed aside her thoughts about the person whom she now considered to be her ex-husband and, trying to ignore the blonde's inquisitive gaze, went back to her pots and pans.
Carla watched every move she made: despite her young age, she had to admit the cook seemed to know what she was doing. The situation looked like it was under control.

“I'm going out,” she told Margherita. “See you in about an hour.” Maybe even two, Carla thought to herself, determined to get her hair done.

Alone at last, Margherita felt freer. She put the heavy cream and a sprig of sage into a saucepan and let it simmer slowly, arranged the pork chops on a large work surface, and used a sharp knife to slice them deeply enough to turn them into pockets. With the moves of a true master, she diced the bacon, pitted the prunes, chopped the parsley, and when she had achieved a fragrant mixture, she stuffed the pork chops. She followed the rhythm of the music that only she could hear, a symphony of aromas, bouquets, and colors, moving quickly from one ingredient to the next, captivated by the dance of flavors that tasted of her childhood, of sweet memories that she had shared with her mother. Tortellini en croûte was one of her mother's signature dishes. Margherita couldn't have been more than eight years old when Erica taught her to make this dish. Her mother had placed a small table next to the counter where she cooked and, after giving her the rolled-out dough, the stamp, and the filling, she'd taught her what to do: “A teaspoon of meat in the middle, fold the crescent shapes, and use the tips of your fingers to seal the edges all around . . .” And, as they made them together, she told Margherita stories about the family, about her grandmother and her great-great-grandmother.

Margherita was so immersed in her thoughts that she hadn't heard the door open, nor did she realize there was
someone behind her. She was completely focused on what she was doing, chanting a nursery rhyme that she and Erica used to recite.

At first, Nicola didn't recognize her. Perhaps because he had expected to see a man, perhaps because this young woman who was humming, bent over the counter, and unaware of his presence moved with such harmony that he couldn't help being charmed by her.

Motionless, he watched her for a few seconds.

Then Margherita turned around and they were face-to-face.

She jumped back in fright. In disbelief, she found herself staring into the dark chocolate eyes of the hotshot from the squid incident, that great consumer of frozen foods. Damn, he was good-looking, maybe even more than last time, with an almost childlike look of amazement on his face.

Nicola was equally taken aback.

It was the crazy blonde from the market! How had she ended up in his kitchen? Who on earth had let her in? For a second he was speechless, but he quickly regained his composure.

“What are
you
doing here?” he asked aggressively. “Where's the chef?”

“I
am
the chef,” she said emphatically, “and
she's
right here standing in front of you. And what are
you
doing here?”

“This is
my
house!” Nicola replied. “I'm the one who hired you!” He gazed at her with brazen hostility. “Had I known it was you, I would have looked for someone else.”

“And had
I
known it was
you
, I would never have accepted!” Margy retorted. “And what is it you all have against women in this place?”

Nicola was again speechless.

What did women have to do with it now?

“You're obviously prejudiced,” she continued, “but you could at least be polite!”

It took just those few seconds of arguing to distract Margherita from her stove: suddenly the smell of something burning wafted through the kitchen.

“Oh, no! The ragout . . . ,” she exclaimed. Margherita spun around and, as the smoke rose up from the saucepan, while trying to remedy the problem she bumped up against it so that it ended up on the floor, just missing the trousers of the owner of the house. Nicola skipped to one side, looking at her angrily.

“You are a menace to society!” he shouted. “I asked for a chef who was an expert in international cuisine, not a disorganized pyromaniac amateur!”

On hearing these words, Margherita heated up as much as her ragout.

“If you'd rather make your own dinner, be my guest. I don't intend to stay here a minute longer. First your wife, now you!”

“Who on earth are you talking about?” Nicola interrupted, while Margherita struggled in vain to untie the knot in her apron.

“Miss Lemon Popsicle!” she exploded. “That kind lady who welcomed me here,” she continued, her words dripping venom.

Nicola had to hold back a grin: he had to admit the nickname fit his assistant to a T, although Carla wouldn't have agreed.

But Margherita was far from finished. “The perfect couple, Mr. Frozen Foods and Miss Lemon Popsicle. Have a
good dinner with the chef's best wishes!” She turned off the stove and started to gather up her things.

“Has anyone ever told you how exasperating you are?” Nicola had to control his urge to slap her. “Have no fear, I'll find a solution!”

“I'm not at all concerned, you can be sure of that!” she replied.

Nicola banged the door as he left the room. Margherita rinsed and dried her kitchen tools, pursing her lips as she did. She was furious.

The whole thing had started out on the wrong foot. She was sorry for Matteo, since he'd probably end up being fired, but he should never have gotten her involved in this. She could hear the owner's tense voice as he telephoned the various restaurants in the area, but she couldn't care less. The only thing she wanted to do was leave that house as soon as possible, that fairy-tale castle that had turned into a witches' den. When she was finally ready to go, she threw open the door but found herself face-to-face with him again, just a few inches away from that body that she couldn't help but find irresistibly sensuous. She jumped back.

“Where do you think you're going?” Nicola asked, blocking the way.

“It's none of your business!” she challenged him.

“Yes, it is my business. All the restaurants are fully booked, and even though I would give anything to get rid of you, you're going to have to stay.”

“You can forget it!” Margherita answered, fuming.

“You made a commitment and now you have to keep it,” Nicola warned her menacingly.

“And what if I don't? All you can do is fire me, but I'll save you the trouble and leave on my own!”

“You're
not going anywhere. You haven't been fired. Now get back in the kitchen and do what you were hired to do or I'll sue the agency!”

He wouldn't dare!

Yes, the bastard would!

Matteo will lose his job!

They'll find out that my references are fake!

Oh, no! They'll report me!

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Nicola urged her. “The person I invited will be here in two hours.”

For a moment he was afraid that Margherita would refuse. The blue of her eyes had darkened, resembling a storm at sea. But then a change came over her. There was a hint of a smile.

“No problem. Dinner will be on the table in two hours,” she said.

But she had miscalculated. It was hard to work with that annoyingly sexy man watching her all the time. Preparing the menu had become, for Margherita, an obstacle course across a series of glowing coals. Nicola scrutinized her, spied on her every movement, never letting her out of his sight, not even for a second.

And, as a result, she couldn't get a single thing right: she got all the measurements wrong, couldn't get the heavy cream to whip, made the custard curdle . . .

“Enough, I can't cook like this!” she finally shouted, exasperated. “Why are you looking at me? Don't you have anything better to do?”

“It's simple, I don't trust you,” he answered, unfazed.

“Then why don't you just serve your guests your damned frozen food!” she burst out. “I'm sure there's a vast assortment in the freezer.”

He didn't move a muscle.

“When I'm paying, I expect only the best service,” he said outright and to the point.

Before Margherita could manage to find an answer that was prickly enough, the doorbell rang.

“You stay here and keep cooking,” he ordered.

“Yes, master,” Margy muttered, but not as quietly as she would have liked to.

Nicola gave her the kind of look that would have turned anyone else to ashes and left the kitchen. Margherita, turning around to follow him with her gaze, suddenly saw the solution to her problems. With an agile leap, she reached the door, closed it, and turned the key in the lock twice.

She leaned up against it, out of breath. She'd made it!

Now she really did have to get down to work, otherwise there wasn't going to be any dinner to serve. She began by sifting the flour in a bowl to make the shooting stars.

A few minutes later, someone knocked insistently.

“What are you doing? Open this door right now!” he ordered.

She ignored him. Then, so that she wouldn't have to hear the threats that he continued to shout, she picked up her iPod, put the earphones in her ears, and turned up the volume. To the beat of an electrifying rock song, Margherita added the flour, sugar, butter, eggs, orange zest, and some liqueur, and began blending together all the ingredients.

For once in his life, Nicola Ravelli was forced to give up.

The one who had to pay the price was Carla, who had just come back from the hairdresser's.

“I demand an explanation!” Nicola attacked her furiously. “I thought I'd made it clear, I want only qualified personnel with references on my staff!”

Carla's apologies and her awkward attempts to justify herself were to no avail, nor was her attempt to blame the agency entirely successful. Nicola paced back and forth in the reception room like a caged lion. How could she not be aware of the disaster that was about to occur? How could she have left that woman alone in the house to mess things up in his kitchen? Carla swore under her breath and felt like she might kill the cook! She had to convince her to open the door . . . after which she was going to throttle her with her bare hands!

But all her attempts were in vain. All her pleas and threats fell on deaf ears. Nicola, at the very peak of his anger, told her to go home. He would deal with Giovanale on his own, seeing that for the moment she was of no use at all. He certainly didn't need Carla to convince the winemaker to sell him his land! Angry and embittered, Carla was forced to leave, although she promised herself she would destroy the guy from the agency and his damned
cook.

Much later, the kitchen door finally opened and Margherita came out, trailed by the most incredible aromas, which in one fell swoop stifled the words of protest on Nicola's lips. Smiling nonchalantly, Margherita asked where she might find the tableware: dinner was ready. Nicola stared in disbelief at the platters filled with food on display on the kitchen table. He couldn't utter a word, while Margherita couldn't help but smile with satisfaction.

Alone in the hall of the recreation center, which as usual had been transformed into a ballroom, were Armando and Giulia. They were both—and not by accident—early for the
lesson. Giulia smiled at him. “So, shall we try this figure?”